16 The Saint Overboard

engaging in an ecstatic contemplation of the navel. Dutifully searching for this mystic umbilicus, the unhappy Elphinphlopham discovered for the first time that his abdomen was completely overgrown with the characteristic shaggy mane of his species; so that it was physically impossible for him to fix his eyes upon the prescribed organ, or indeed for him to discover whether nature had ever endowed him with this indispensable adjunct to the Higher Thought. This awful doubt worried Elphinphlopham so badly——'

'Nothing worries you very much, does it?' said Loretta gently.

The Saint smiled.

'My dear, I gave that up after the seventh time I was told I had about ten minutes to live. And I'm still alive.'

He lay stretched out comfortably on the bunk, with his hands behind his head and the smoke spiralling up from his cigarette. It was the same cabin in which he had knocked out Otto Arnheim not so long ago—the same cabin from which he had so successfully rescued Steve Murdoch. With the essential dif­ference that this time he was the one in need of rescuing, and there was no one outside who would be likely to do the job. He recognised it as Kurt Vogel's inevitable crowning master-stroke to have sent him down there, with Loretta, while he made the choice that had been offered him. He looked at the steady hu­mour in her grey eyes, the slim vital beauty of her, and knew by the breathless drag of his heart how accurately that master?stroke had been placed; but he could never let her know.

She sat on the end of the bunk, leaning against the bulkhead and looking down at him, with her hands clasped across her knees. He could see the passing of time on her wrist watch.

'How long do you think we shall live now?' she said.

'Oh, indefinitely—according to Birdie. Until I'm a toothless old gaffer dribbling down my beard, and you're a silver-haired duenna of the Women's League of Purity. If I do this job for him, he's ready to send us an affectionate greeting card on our jubilee.'

'If you believe him.'

'And you don't.'

'Do you?'

Simon twitched his shoulders. He thought of the bargain which he had really been offered, and kept his gaze steadfastly on the ceiling.

'Yes. In a way I think he'll keep his word.'

'He murdered Yule.'

'For the bathystol. So that nobody else should have it. But no clever crook murders without good reason, because that's only adding to his own dangers. What would he gain by getting rid of us?'

'Silence,' she said quietly.

He nodded.

'But does he really need that any more? You told me that some people had known for a long time that this racket existed. The fact that we're here tells him that we've linked him up with it. And that means that we've got friends outside who know as much as we know.'

'He knows who I am, then?'

'No. Only that you've been very inquisitive, and that you tried to warn me. Doubtless he thinks you're part of my gang— people always credit me with a gang.'

'So he'd let you go, knowing who you are?'

'Knowing who I am, he'd know I wouldn't talk about him to the police.'

'So he'd let you go to come back with some more of your gang and shoot him up again?'

Simon turned his head to cock an eye at her. She must not know. He must not be drawn further into argument. Already, with that cool courageous wit of hers, she had him blundering.

'Are you cross-examining me, woman?' he demanded quizzi­cally.

'I want an answer.'